


je meurs pour que tu vives

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Someone gets stabbed, that doesnt change sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benvolio sees Tybalt raise his sword first. (Canon divergence. Written for a Tumblr prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	je meurs pour que tu vives

It happened fast. Too fast.

Benvolio hadn’t even _been_ in the fight; he wasn’t supposed to have been involved, he _never_ got involved in fights if he could help it. This had been between, Tybalt, Romeo, and Mercutio alone; they were the ones with a score to settle, they were the hot-blooded ones, and if anyone should have seen the wrong end of the knife if should have been one of them. It should have been _him_. So why, Mercutio agonized as he helped a staggering Benvolio make his way into a house that had opened it’s doors for them, was Benvolio the one who was bleeding?

“Arrh!” One hand pressed tightly over his abdomen, Benvolio let out a groan of agony as his knees gave out. Mercutio caught him before he could fall and gently lowered him to the ground, cradling his friend’s head in his lap. Benvolio’s shirt was quickly turning a dark crimson; the sight made Mercutio want to gag. It wasn’t right- this was wrong, so wrong, all wrong.

“Ben-” His throat was so closed up that he could barely draw air into his lungs, nevermind speak. But he’d be damned if now, of all times, he found himself at a loss for words. “Oh, you- absolute, fantastic fool of a hero. What were you thinking?”

“I…” Benvolio winced, his words dying away as another spurt of agony shot through his gravely injured body; but presently he found his voice again. “I always wanted… to die a hero’s death.”

He had the nerve to _smile_ ; Mercutio wanted to hit him. He didn’t get to _smile_ when he was dying _(and he was dying- oh god, he was dying)_. He needed help; he needed to get to the hospital.

“Don’t talk that way, Benvolio. It’s nothing- some of your favorite philosophers and poets have cut much deeper.” Benvolio _couldn’t_ die; not when he was so young, so good, so full of life. The idea was one Mercutio simply couldn’t comprehend, even as his hands pressed hard against the deep wound in Benvolio’s stomach and became stained dark with blood in the process. “You can’t die from this.”

It wasn’t supposed to have been Benvolio. Damned Tybalt with his damned knife, a damned knife that only Benvolio had seen in time. Romeo had been the one Tybalt had meant to stab; Mercutio had been in the direct path, and would have- should have- taken the hit for him. But instead it was Benvolio who had torn himself from the haze of fighting and flung his body in front of both of his friends, sheltering them from what would in all likelihood have been death- and taking the blade himself.

Benvolio’s hands were over Mercutio’s, trying to tug them away; but Mercutio refused, only pressing down harder the more Benvolio tried to resist. “No,” he half-snarled, rage and grief choking his voice. “No!”

“Mercutio… Mercutio, stop…” Benvolio was still tugging at his hands, attempting to get him to stop trying to save him. “It hurts… it’s no use.”

_“No!”_ Mercutio repeated, pressing down even harder- as if the more he pressed, the more crucial lifeblood would spill back into Benvolio’s body, the faster the wound in his stomach would close up, the easier it would be to climb to his feet again as if he’d never seen an injury in his life. If sheer determination could have given Benvolio life, he would have gained a thousand years in that moment.

But determination was nothing against a knife wound.

Suddenly Benvolio let out a sharp cry, and involuntarily Mercutio jumped; startled, he tore his hands away from the room to cradle Benvolio’s face, brushing dark, blood-slickened hair from his face and wiping away the sweat gathering on his brow. Benvolio gently took Mercutio’s hands in his own frail grip, weakly bringing them to his mouth. Cold lips pressed against Mercutio’s palm; a strangled sob escaped his throat of it’s own accord.

“Please… don’t leave me.” He shook his head almost frantically, gripping Benvolio’s fragile body to his chest. “I can’t be alone… don’t go.”

“Mercutio…” The word was a sigh escaping from barely parted lips.

“It should have been me… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t your…”

“That bastard should have stabbed _me!_ The dirty cheating bastard should have stuck his knife in me, not you-” Mercutio choked on his words again, squeezing his eyes shut tightly to fight back the tears he knew were straining to escape. “Not _you…_ ”

He only opened his eyes when he felt Benvolio’s touch on his face; faint, weakened, like the brush of a feather. His eyes opened wide just in time to catch Benvolio’s own; those large, lively hazel eyes which were never quite small enough for his face, which now stared up at him with a burning intensity that left Mercutio captivated.

Slowly, Benvolio’s lips carved words out of air that seemed to have turned to stone around them. “Live,” he whispered hoarsely, clutching the front of Mercutio’s shirt for emphasis. “Live… in peace.”

Slowly, Benvolio’s grip faded away; his eyes, locked on Mercutio’s own until the end, went dull.

Mercutio could do nothing but scream.


End file.
